


if we can't save the earth

by pipistrelle



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, Drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and tidbits from the Avengers movieverse. Mostly Clintasha, but probably some Pepper/Tony and gen randomness and Bruce being adorable down the road.</p><p>Chapter 8: Clint winds up with an unusual souvenir from Moscow. Pure fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aloof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint does not have a fun playdate with the press.

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake -- look, this is not that hard to understand! Just because Tasha and I are whatever now -- public, I guess -- that doesn’t mean she’s changed into some weepy wilting damsel so that I get to comfort her with my strong manly manness! She can still beat the shit out of me any day of the week. And what makes you think I’ve ever seen her cry? Yeah, I mean, we’re partners, we trust each other, we get to be ourselves around each other -- so when she’s around me, she gets to be herself, and that what did you call it, aloof and cold? Guess what? That is her self! When it’s just me and her, she doesn’t have to hide anymore, it gets worse! And I fucking love it, I love every second, I love every time she freaks me the fuck out, and if you ask me one more question about ‘getting her to open up’ or ‘melting the ice queen’ I swear to God I’ll --”_  
  
Natasha mercifully turned the TV off and turned to Clint with a sunny, terrifying smile. “Have a fun playdate with the press, Barton?”  
  
Clint groaned, though the sound was somewhat muffled by the pillows he’d mounded up around his head in a futile attempt to ease his vicious headache. It had been tormenting him for days, and having Natasha break into his room, wake him up, and make him watch that goddamned interview again wasn’t helping. “Fuck off, Tasha,” he groaned. “Why don’t you have Fury send you on a tabloid junket? Six days of, of inane and _fucking personal_ questions on no sleep. See how you like it.”  
  
“I’ve seen you go eight days on no sleep and take out an entire heroin-smuggling ring,” Natasha drawled. “Got a better excuse?”  
  
“I hate the way they talk about you. I got pissed. So sue me.”  
  
“Oh, believe me, they will,” Natasha said cheerfully. “Those were some pretty impressive threats. I think I recognized a few of them.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Clint mumbled. “At least I didn’t kill anybody.”  
  
Clint shut his eyes, burrowing deeper into the pillows, trying to block out the sun and the world and the memory of that TV reporter’s terrified face. He did feel a twinge of guilt about that -- poor kid, she’d only been doing her job -- but he reassured himself with the thought that she’d probably be getting rich off this. She was probably out there being interviewed by other reporters right now. _How did it feel to be harassed by the hero Hawkeye? Did you get him to open up and talk about his warm and mushy feelings?_ And etc.  
  
There was no noise, but he felt the mattress dip as Natasha sat on the edge of the bed. Then she spoke, and he could perfectly imagine the sour look on her face. “‘It gets worse’?” she asked.  
  
Clint had been waiting for that question, he’d been thinking about how to answer it all the way back from California, in between catnaps and verbal lashings from Fury. He had planned a couple of different speeches, ways to be tactful and circumspect, but fuck it, this was Natasha, and anyway he was tired.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “When there’s no handler and no team and no target and no press? You are scary as _fuck_. You are, I don’t know, harsh and raw and, and scarred, Tasha, that’s who you fucking are, and when you don’t feel like you have to hide it, or apologize for it? It’s hot. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. And ‘m not sorry I said so.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment, weighing and calculating. She laid a hand on his bare shoulder and just rested it there, fingers splayed. Her touch felt cool and clean on his abraded skin, and as he exhaled he felt all the coiled-up tension melt out of him, and might have fallen asleep right then if it wasn’t for the subtle but growing pressure of Natasha’s nails digging in.  
  
“I think,” she said slowly, “that may be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”  
  
He could hear the smile in her voice, and it made him shiver down to his toes.Then he felt her lips on the back of his neck, trailing kisses across his shoulder blade, pausing every now and then for a gentle bite, a promise of things to come.  
  
“Ready to be scared, Barton?”  
  
“Yes’m,” he gasped, and as she flipped him over by main force he thought that maybe the whole press junket thing had been worth his time after all. **  
**


	2. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers has entirely the wrong instincts for spying and assassination. TRIGGER WARNING for violence and abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this happened.
> 
> *TRIGGER WARNING* for violence and abuse.

Clint sights along his nocked arrow, raising himself up on his elbows to get a better angle on the lit window across the street. Natasha or the mark has left the blinds up; always a good sign. He can't see either of them, but he can hear Natasha speaking French on the comm link and, more faintly, the mark's disdainful replies.

Steve Rogers crawls up beside him, keeping his head down, and Clint silently thanks Fury for getting the assignments right this time. At least Captain America, unlike Iron Man, understands the concept of concealment. "Anything?" he hisses.

"Not yet...wait." Natasha sweeps into the rectangle of light like a ballerina taking command of a stage. Behind her comes the mark, some cocaine-smuggling tycoon looking lean and sharp in an expensive suit but already helpless. Clint knows the signs from a thousand ops, and he can tell immediately that she's got this one on a tight leash. Even without the benefit of the long-range SHIELD-issue goggles Rogers is using -- Clint hates how they distort his sense of scale -- he imagines he can see the nervous sweat gleaming on the mark's face.

In his ear the French is getting louder, more heated. All at once the mark takes a swing at Natasha; she shrieks, drops her glass of wine and staggers back. The next blow catches her in the stomach and she drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself, sobbing. The mark kicks her in the side and stands staring at her, breathing hard, then wipes his forehead on his sleeve and moves back out of sight of the window.

Clint is so focused on the tableau that he forgets about Rogers, forgets that Captain America is also on the comm link and is currently listening to a woman weeping, terrified and broken, betrayed and assaulted. Rogers has been working with Natasha for a few weeks, but his instinctive response to that sound is the work of years and, for all Clint knows, the serum might have burned it into his DNA. Clint drop his arrow, sacrificing his aim, and only his stellar reflexes let him clamp down on Rogers' arm before he can swing over the edge of the roof and leap valiantly to Natasha's rescue.

"Cool it, Cap," Clint says."She hasn't signalled."

"But, that -- that _cad_ , he just --"

"I know," Clint says. "But our job is to stay here until she either completes the first phase, or signals that she needs help." Then, taking pity on Rogers' evident frustation, "She's okay, I promise. Watch."

What he might have said, if he didn't still harbor a faint but lingering suspicion of the Good Man and perfect soldier, is something like: _Maybe if you stick around long enough you'll learn that in this line of work tears are an extravagance, that for Natasha especially crying is a particularly showy form of play-acting, a waste of energy that true pain does not allow._

To his credit, Rogers doesn't protest or struggle. Clint releases his arm and regains his bead on the window, watching as the mark pads into view again, looking a bit more composed this time. The mark leans over Natasha, soothing and conciliatory, and Natasha takes the opportunity to flip him over her shoulder, twist both arms up against his back, and grind his face into the floor. There's a ragged exchange of French, then a sharp movement in the window and silence -- Natasha's mic isn't sensitive enough to catch the _crack_ as she snaps her victim's neck.

"Told you," Clint says, as Natasha starts dragging the mark's body over to the window.

Rogers looks up at him, not horrified -- he's a soldier, after all -- but at the very least deeply confused and a little sad. "So she faked it. But...why?"

"Jackoff bait," Clint says. "Works every time. Nat says that the best way to take a man out is to feed his addictions. I'd rather just do it the easy way, but..." he brandishes his bow and shrugs. "The ones who make themselves feel big and strong by beating up on women and kissing it all better... it's good that they go out that way. Poetic justice, maybe."

Rogers scowls. "That's not very poetic."

"No," Clint says, "that's a wrap on phase one." Natasha has opened the window and shoved the mark's body out; it'll take a lot of work to tell the suicide was staged. Better that way.

Clint fights down the impulse to wave as Natasha looks up, scanning the skyline for him. She lifts a hand to her hair. "Phase one complete," she says in his ear, voice utterly composed. "Hawkeye, what's your position?"

The screaming is starting on the street below. "On the wing," Clint says. He moves to the edge of the building, motioning for Rogers to follow, and swings over the edge, hanging over darkness. "Here goes phase two," he says, and drops.


	3. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her best weapon is her ability to read other people, and his work is all about spotting patterns. Some things are so self-evident that they would only be cheapened by words.

Natasha pulls her punches to varying degrees with every agent and instructor in SHIELD; the underestimation of others is her first and best line of self-defense, and hiding her limits has often saved her life. Clint is the only one she hits with her full strength.

Clint never whines or argues when she tests him, stops him just when he's nearly done undressing her, sends him away, tells him she wants to sleep alone. He likes the challenges she sets for him, likes to be the walking, talking proof of her control over her own space, her own body. (He likes proving to her that such things are possible.)

Natasha knows Clint's birthday (she’s read his personnel file), but she never does anything to distinguish it from any other day of the year, and Clint has reason to suspect she's actually sabotaged onerous birthday parties for him on more than one occasion.

Even though Coulson has given him the occasional opportunity and, as her partner, it would have been within his rights, Clint has never read Natasha's personnel file. (He prefers to hear about her past from her, or not at all.)

Natasha has never once been proven to be in transgression of any of SHIELD’s fraternization policies. (But then again, her stealth is nearly superhuman, and the security camera has not been invented that she can't disable or wipe clean.)

Clint has years and years of experience when it comes to making out in supply closets, and he’s a very generous instructor.

They save each others' lives so often it's hardly worth mentioning; saving each other has become their working week and their Sunday rest, and they are so far tangled up in debt that there is probably no means on this earth by which it could ever be repaid. They are both surprised to discover that this kind of debt, unlike any other kind they've ever encountered, can be used to heal and strengthen instead of capture or enslave.

Her world hangs in the balance and she bargains for one man.

He was sent to kill her, but he made a different call.

Her best weapon is her ability to read other people, and his work is all about spotting patterns. Some things are so self-evident that they would only be cheapened by words. The relationship they have is not uncomplicated, but when it comes to the really important questions, issues of trust and loyalty (and that other thing, the thing they never talk about), they both feel they have all the evidence they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies if you caught the Auden quote.


	4. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's why you keep me around; so nothing can get lost."

The Beijing hit is rough, and after being separated from his partner and forced to clean up after rookies for three back-to-back missions, Clint decides he's earned a little time off. Before Fury can order him onto the Helicarrier he ditches the New Mexico campus and gives himself a week to level out. Since Tasha is still away in Johannesburg or Iowa or God knows where, Clint skips their half-dozen nearest shared safe houses and heads to Boston, where he's got a little apartment overlooking the Charles.

He spends the first two days wandering the city, marveling at the middle-aged punks and college kids like he's on some kind of hipster safari, and drinking enough coffee to kill a horse. On the third day, just when he thinks he's about ready to crawl out of his skin, he wakes up in the morning and finds Natasha, in jeans and a t-shirt, standing in his kitchen.

At first he thinks she's come to take him back to SHIELD, maybe with a lecture on responsibility thrown in for added fun. But she doesn't turn, or speak, or acknowledge him at all, though he knows she heard him coming. She's too busy staring at his selection of instant-coffee flavors, all the labeled packets arranged on a little circular rack that spins. She's spinning it slowly, glaring at it like she's trying to demoralize it during an interrogation. Watching her watch his coffee, Clint starts counting back the days in head; three for him in Beijing, four before that in Hawaii, before that he'd spent a week on security detail on SHIELD's campus, out of rotation because she'd been flying solo in Kuwait... all in all, he realizes, it's been a good two weeks since he's last seen her as herself.

He stretches and yawns, making plenty of noise, then edges closer and reaches around her to take down a pair of mugs. "You don't find any of that particularly appealing," he says casually, gesturing to the coffee rack. "You think I'm a Philistine for drinking instant; you always drag me to that fancy French place on Tremont. But when I make you pick something, this is what you hate least." He pulls down an unlabeled tin from the cabinet and passes it to her. She pries off the lid, filling the kitchen with the loamy, bitter scent of expensive coffee grounds.

She doesn't thank him, only looks up at him with her eyes unreadable and her lips pressed into a thin line. Clint focuses on putting water on to boil and starts rummaging in a different cabinet for cereal. "Who was it this time?" he asks, as neutrally as possible.

Natasha answers distantly, almost dreamily. "Talia Rockwell. A senator's mistress. She takes black coffee with sugar and Bailey's... sugar on _everything."_ She makes a face. "I can still taste it. No more sugar."

"Good, more for me," Clint says cheerfully. He pulls out a box of children's cereal and leans on the counter, picking out the rainbow marshmallows, not bothering with a bowl. "And before that?"

"Natalie Rushman again. Corporate espionage. No coffee, just tea -- because of the image, not the taste. She thinks it makes her more sophisticated. She pretends the caffeine in coffee makes her jittery, but that's an excuse, the tea she drinks is just as strong. Black tea."

"Uh-huh. And before that?"

Natasha seems to rise out of her dream and looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Why the sudden interest in my covers?"

Clint shrugs. "You told me once that it helps when you externalize them. Describe them as people apart from  you."

"I haven't lost _that_ much," she snaps.

"You haven't lost anything," Clint counters.

She looks like she's going to argue, but instead she lets out a shuddering breath and something in her relaxes; an almost-imperceptible tension in her shoulders, the release of a fear she hadn't been letting herself feel. "I have," she says quietly to the coffee tin. "I went too long this time. Not as bad as last year, but... there are things I'm missing. I can feel it."

Clint drops the cereal and goes to her, wrapping his arms around her, positioning himself as the boundary between Natasha and the world; _here_ is everything that is hers and everything that is not hers is _there_. "Try me," he says.

In his arms as nowhere else, she permits herself uncertainty; she hesitates. "What happened in Paris?" she asks finally.

"Which time?" Clint asks. "There was the diamond job, the time Fury got attacked by pigeons, the time you knocked me out because you didn't like my singing..."

"The last time."

"That would've been about six months ago," Clint says. "We were supposed to assassinate some Moroccan guy, the jihadist-uprising guy, but his flight got rerouted at the last minute and we had a death-free afternoon. We went out to celebrate. We even climbed the Eiffel Tower the stupid tourist way, because you wouldn't let me do it my way."

"You would've got shot," Natasha says. "It was raining. I remember. Natalie did that with her boyfriend, only all their afternoons were death-free, so they were celebrating something else. Their anniversary, I think."

"Bet he wasn't as good-looking as me," Clint says smugly.

Natasha doesn't rise to the bait. "Do I really like opera?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "Yes, God knows why. It's all bullshit. You and Pepper went and saw some boring-ass thing last time we were in New York. Something about butterflies."

"It's good to know you're a Philistine in all the arts, not just coffee," Natasha says seriously.

"Now you sound like you," Clint sighs happily. He lets his hands slide down towards her waist, but stops as she takes in a sudden, sharp breath. "Something new?"

Natasha pulls back and lifts her shirt, wordlessly showing him what will doubtless become a new scar; a long, deep wound in her side, already healing but still ragged around the edges. Clint winces in sympathy, brushing his fingertips over it lightly and feeling the way she shrinks from the touch. It's uglier now than it's going to be, especially with the way she heals, but Clint's seen wounds like that kill bigger men than him. "Jesus, Nat," he breathes, "what did this, a fucking axe?"

"You say that like it's strange," she says, with a faint smile.

" _Tasha_ ," he says, half angry and half pleading. He tugs on her wrist and she lets him pull her back into an embrace, lets him bury his face in the crook between her neck and her shoulder. For the hundredth time, he finds himself wondering if each new person she becomes has a different story for every one of her scars, replacing the near-fatal gunshots wounds and three-story falls with bike crashes and dog bites. How will Natalie Rushman go out in a bikini with the evidence of a giant axe wound under her ribs? For the hundredth time, he doesn't ask.

"There's more," she says quietly. "It's not just coffee and opera. I don't know what it is yet, but I can feel that there's more missing, more... jumbled."

"Then we'll un-jumble it," he says firmly. "You'll level out, it'll all come back, and if it doesn't then I'll remind you. That's why you keep me around, so nothing can get lost."

She puts a hand on his cheek, turning his head, making him look into her eyes. "Do I really believe that?" she asks quietly.

He smiles, all confidence. "No," he says. "But I'll keep telling you every time, and eventually you will."


	5. Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha discovers that Clint can sing, and things go downhill from there. Silly nonsense that I couldn't get out of my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs referenced are property of their respective owners. No profit is being made and etc.

The mission had gone well, but it had been stressful, and once released from the debrief Clint and Natasha had torn up most of the right bank of the Seine in an effort to unwind. Sunrise found them holed up in a grungy student bar, long since emptied of even the bravest of patrons. The bartender had let them stay after closing because he liked leering at Natasha in her ice-blue mission gown, but around four in the morning even he had given up and gone home, and by that point he'd overheard enough of their war stories to be afraid to kick them out.  
  
Finally it was just Natasha, sitting backwards on an ornate chair claw-footed chair and staring moodily into her vodka, and Clint, flat on his back on a sticky folding table. His arms and legs hung off the sides, and his head was tilted back, his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing in a way that Natasha found fascinating despite herself. Vulnerability never stopped being a surprise to her, never stopped being tempting. So many soft places...  
  
Natasha was starting to feel the effects of the vodka, which usually meant they had reached the point of the night when Clint's mind would be in tatters. She'd thought he was passed out, actually, until he started to sing.  
  
She felt his voice almost as a physical force -- a clear, carrying tenor that brushed against her and enveloped her like a strong breeze. It made her breath catch in her throat; that someone so fucked up, someone with so much red in his ledger, could produce something so clean, so pure; for half a second it gave her a wild hope.

Then she recognized the song.  
  
" _Dirty baaaabe... Y'see these shackles baby I'm your slaaave..._ "  
  
Natasha kept her face impassive, but it was a close thing. "Clint," she said, going for toneless, but it came out as a croak. "Clint, stop. Please."  
  
" _I'll let you whip me if I misbehaaaaaave..._ " he warbled.  
  
"Barton. Clint."   
  
" _Take it to the chorus_!"  
  
Natasha set her drink down and stood, staying surprisingly steady as the bar rocked around her. She edged around her chair and cupped Clint's upside-down face in her hands. "Hush," she said.  
  
Clint stopped singing mid-note in order to stare at her, his mouth still open, his eyes wide and bloodshot in a way that made Natasha think he might have drunk himself beyond the ability to process language. Finally he shook his head, his three-day mission stubble scraping against her palms. "No. Can't make me. 'M a hawk."

"Hawks don't sing. They just kill things. Be a hawk, Clint."

"I _am_ a hawk. The _prettiest_ hawk. Beautiful... pink feathers." He blinked, distracted, then seemed to remember his argument. "Wanna sing."

"Then pick something better," she said. "As much as I love to watch you embarrass yourself, I'm not drunk enough for this shit."  
  
"G'off me," he slurred, pushing at her wrists. She let go of his face and leaned back against the table, picking up her drink and knocking back the rest of it in a single swallow.   
  
A sudden crash would have made her jump, if she wasn't Natasha Romanoff (and if her reflexes hadn't been ever-so-slightly dulled by vodka). Clint had tried to sit up, and in the process he'd fallen off the table, right into a cluster of chairs. He struggled up among the debris and eventually managed to get as far as kneeling -- so he could hold his torso straight, thought Natasha, who had dreamed for twenty years that she had been a ballerina.  
  
He took a deep breath. “ _Daaancing bears, paainted wings_ \--”  
  
It took almost nothing to put him down -- she barely had to tap his jaw and he toppled over, snoring, scattering bits of broken chairs. She thought briefly about feeling a twinge of guilt, but decided against it; he had brought it on himself, after all. He knew perfectly well how she felt about that fucking song.  
  
Besides, he should thank her. He’d probably have less of headache in the morning this way.


	6. Puppy love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint helps move some unusual cargo, and defines his criteria for bringing home strays.

Clint has guarded a lot of transports, but not since his circus days has he gone to check on the cargo and had the cargo bark back.

There are half a dozen dogs in the back of the truck -- at least, Clint assumes that they’re dogs. They’re uniformly thick-furred and aerodynamic, with long pointed snouts and long feathery tails that wag languidly at him. He guesses that the head of the shortest one comes up to his waist, and something about their long, long legs and curved backs makes him think irresistibly of a cross between a greyhound and a llama.

Natasha rounds the side of the truck. “Everything clear?”

“Yeah, clear. I just -- this is the payload? The detail Fury absolutely needed us on?”

Natasha smirks at him, then vaults effortlessly over the grate set to keep the dogs in the truck. They move out of the way to let her land, then crowd around her legs, butting their long narrow heads together. “What’s the matter, Barton? Not a dog person?”

“No, I am -- with, you know, normal dogs,” he says, climbing up after her. “What _are_ these things?”

“ _Borzýe_ , the wolfhounds of the tsars,” Natasha says. “Used to be you couldn’t buy them, only receive one as a gift from royalty.”

“And now?”

"These were just sold for five million a head."

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Some payload.”

“Well, these are special.” The biggest dog, a huge graceful thing with a coat of mottled red and white, nudges her elbow. She obligingly scratches under its chin. “Better settle in. We leave in five, and the driver said it’s going to be rough terrain to Moscow. Hijackings have been up in the last month, and it’s prime ambush territory.”

“Oh, goody,” Clint sighs, shoving his way over to the bench through the swarming dogs. The minute he sits down, one of them puts its head in his lap and drools adoringly all over him. “Should be fun.”

* * *

The ambush comes on Clint’s watch.

First is the shouting, cutting over the dogs’ soft snoring, and by the time the first gunshot rings out Natasha is already awake. She moves to check each animal while Clint stands with an explosive arrow nocked, ready to fire the moment the metal door lifts.

More shouting, then swearing and clanking as someone wrestles with the locks. The door rolls up, and as soon as it’s cleared three inches Clint fires an arrow through the gap. The blast blows the door off the truck and sends the men who opened it flying into snowdrifts.

Clint jumps out into the snow, going down to one knee and picking off three of them as they try to get back up. The truck is stopped in a narrow ravine, and Clint can see more hostiles coming down the sides -- and these aren’t rugged mountain men, they're professionals, with high-quality protective gear and rifles. Clint lunges for the truck door and hauls it up against the side of the vehicle, giving himself a bit of cover as they come into range and start shooting. “Natasha!” he shouts. “Need a bit of help out here!”

A chorus of howls rises from the truck and suddenly Clint is at the center of a storm of muscle and fur as the _borzýe_ leap around him and over him and throw themselves at the attacking men. Clint has time to watch, stunned, as the one who'd been drooling on his lap rips the throat out of one of the hostiles; then Natasha drops down beside him. She takes out another bandit with a single shot. "I told them what we need them to do. Go around to the cab, make sure the approach is clear," she orders.

Clint nods and edges around the back of the truck, leaving Natasha to lay cover fire for the dogs at their hunt. The tires are undamaged, and the cab looks fine, except for the corpse of the driver bleeding all over the floor and window. Clint swears under his breath and opens the door, letting the still-warm body slide out into the snow. _Poor bastard, won't get much of a burial out here --_

A grenade bounces off the hood of the truck with a _clink_. Clint lets out a yell and dives out of the way, but he's too slow, and concussion blots out the world.

* * *

He wakes to throbbing pain, nausea, and a cold, wet nose snuffling at his face. He groans and tries to push the offending thing away. Almost immediately it vanishes and is replaced by a much more welcome sensation -- Natasha's hand in his hair, checking his scalp methodically for breaks and blood.

"Open your eyes, Clint," she says, and he does, swallowing against the overwhelming urge to vomit at the pain that shatters his skull. Everything is white light -- then Natasha shuts the flashlight off and her face blurs into focus above him. "Pupils are normal," she says. "Can you move?"

"Yeah," Clint groans, pushing himself up with a monumental effort. Natasha takes a step back and watches him, flanked by two of the _b_ _orzýe,_ who stand panting at him with their muzzles and chests all matted with gore. She looks like something out of a terrifying myth, Clint thinks fuzzily. A painting of some barbarian goddess of war.

"Get up," Natasha says. "Into the cab, if you can manage it. I wiped off most of the blood. We lost one of the dogs, but SHIELD's sending a heavier guard detail and a replacement driver, they should be here soon."

Clint gets one hand on the fender of the truck and struggles to his feet. "Did all the tsars train their dogs to kill people?" he asks, rubbing his head.

" _Borzýe_ are hunting dogs, Clint. Wolfhounds. This litter has been... genetically enhanced. It's why we were involved in their transport."

"Oh." One of the genetically enhanced, lethal wolfhounds -- humanhounds? -- trots over to Clint and rubs its bloody head into his hand, demanding to be scratched behind the ears. Clint complies, and looks up at Natasha with a wordless plea.

She smiles, just a flicker, but Clint catches it. "No, we can't take one home," she sighs.

"Why _not_?" Clint demands, not caring that it comes out a whine.

"Well, for one thing, they cost five million apiece. And Fury won't like you bringing home strays."

"Yes, he will. He knows I have excellent taste in strays," Clint says. "Especially Russian ones that kill people."

That nearly surprises a laugh out of her. "Take it up with him, then," she says, standing and trying to look stern, but she can't keep a hint of a smile off her face. "I'm going to make a sweep and radio SHIELD again, see if they can get us out of here before you try to adopt anything else."

"You're welcome!" he calls, as she heads off towards the nearest pile of dead bandits. She doesn't turn back. Clint looks down as his dog rubs its head against his knee, smearing a swath of blood across his pant leg. "Don't worry, boy," he whispers conspiratorially. "You'll like it at SHIELD. I'll show you where Fury hides the horrible raisin cookies he likes; his face is hilarious when you steal them. I needed a sidekick, anyway."

The dog _woof_ s happily and licks his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blame for this one goes on the Thanksgiving dog show. These dogs -- borzoi in English -- are real, and I find them hilarious-looking.


	7. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the only female Avenger has its challenges. Natasha teaches Tony a long-overdue lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was rewatching Iron Man 2 the other day and...well. Not sure how in-character any of this is, but once I thought of it I couldn't not write it.

It all starts when Thor ropes Steve and Clint into showing him this fascinating midsummer ritual of the "Midgardian barbeque", and the resulting fire takes out a kitchen, an auxiliary lab, and half of Tony's penthouse. 

The damage is actually pretty minimal, considering, and it would have been just another day in the tower -- except that Natasha's reaction to thinking Clint had died in a fire had apparently been _not quite neutral enough_ , and now Tony won't shut up about it.

And that leads the rest of the Avengers (meaning Bruce) to make discreet inquiries into why Tony cares so much, because Natasha and Clint have clearly been a thing for as long as anyone has known them, and Tony has Pepper, and why is he acting like Natasha maybe, possibly, caring about Clint a tiny little bit is the equivalent of her plunging a knife into his back?

"It is -- you know, that's exactly what it is," Tony declares. "Maybe you don't know this, Bruce, her sordid backstory, but before Fury rounded up all you loveable freaks he sent _her_ \--" he points at Natasha with his spoon, flinging cereal across the table "-- to pretend she was from _Legal_ and seduce me with her boxing and fancy Latin--"

"Believe me, Stark," Natasha says, not looking up from the book she's reading. "If I wanted to seduce you, you'd know."

"It's hard to miss," Clint adds helpfully.

"-- and then she betrayed me, and _then_ she stole Pepper and turned her against me --"

"Did she seduce Pepper, too?" Bruce jokes. The expression that forms on Tony's face makes his stomach sink. "Oh come on, Tony, don't -- that's not what I --"

"Hey, Romanoff, I've got a proposal for you," Tony says suddenly. "What if, in return for my forgiveness for all your past betrayals, you come up to the penthouse with me and Pep and..."

He stops talking as Natasha stands, folds down the corner of the page, and walks around the table to where he's leaning his chair back on two legs, propped up against the counter to keep from falling. She gently reaches out and carresses one cheek, then grabs his chin and one shoulder and wrenches him off-balance, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he can flail away she puts one knee in the middle of his back, pinning him facedown. "Listen closely, Stark," she says conversationally. "This may come as a shock, so I'll say it slowly. _Not all women want to have sex with_ _you._ Do you understand?"

Tony mutters something unintelligible against the floor.

"Say it."

"N'all women wanna ha'sex with me."

"Good." Natasha stands up, releasing him, and returns to her seat and her book. Bruce is trying, with limited success, to hide a smile. Steve looks deeply shocked, though whether at the violence or the content of the lesson, it's impossible to say. Clint, perched on the countertop behind Natasha, is laughing his ass off.

Tony scrambles back up into his chair, his face red. There's a faint imprint of the floral tile pattern on one cheek. "That was uncalled for and unecessary," he starts.

Natasha turns the page. "No, it wasn't. It was overdue. Anytime you're ready for a repeat lesson, just say so."

Tony starts getting that look on his face again, but Bruce gently lays a hand on his arm, and for once in his life Tony Stark succeeds in keeping his mouth shut.

It is, Natasha thinks, a promising start.


	8. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint winds up with an unusual souvenir from Moscow. Pure fluff.

Natasha is nearly done filling out her mission report from Moscow (it was a disaster -- but then, Moscow is always a disaster) when Clint emerges from the bathroom, a fluffy white towel around his waist and his hair still wet from the shower. She lets herself pause to watch him as he pads over to the dresser and starts digging around for clothes. (Technically, they each have their own room in Stark Tower, but since all of their stuff combined barely fills a suitcase, they've just been using Clint's room to store guns and knives.)

"Barton," Natasha says suddenly, "what is _that?_ " There's a small black something on his left hip, just where the towel ends; it keeps slipping in and out of view as he shifts his weight. He looks up at the sound of his name, and twists his head to see what she's looking at.

"What is -- oh. That is, uh, a tattoo. That I got while I was drunk. That you weren't supposed to know about," he says.

She beckons him over to the bed with an imperious gesture, and she can see him think about refusing for half a second, but then he gives in and comes to stand in front of her.  She slides the edge of the towel down and runs her fingers over the small black letters imprinted on his hip: Наталья. They're still a little bit inflamed, red around the edges, and Clint squirms under her touch.

He squirms even more when she looks up at him, her eyes cold. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Oh God, I hope not," Clint groans."Is it bad? Is it some kind of, I don't know, spy-identifier? 'I work for SHIELD, please stab here', or something? I was drunk off my ass and I don't speak Russian, I don't know what I could have said to that guy."

Her tone is careful. "You mean you don't know what it says."

He doesn't even have the decency to look embarassed. "I was going to ask you eventually, once we got done with all the paperwork and debriefing. It's not like I could take it to one of Fury's translators. 'Hi, I'm Agent Barton, world-famous superhero and master assassin, please tell me what's written on my pelvis'. That's got to be some kind of write-up."

"Clint, you _asshole,_ " she says through gritted teeth. "That's my name."

"That's -- what?" He cranes his head trying to look at it. "No, that's ridiculous. Why does it start with an H?"

"It's not an H. It's --God, Barton, you really can't read that? We've been partners for years! Have I taught you nothing?"

"You've taught me how to swear like a filthy, sexually frustrated sailor in four langauges and suffocate people with my thighs," Clint says, but he's not looking at her. He's still trying to crook his neck into a position that'll let him read the tattoo. He runs his fingers over it, fascinated, though it must still hurt. "Huh," he says. He looks up at her, and something in her expression catches his attention, makes him widen his eyes and tilt his head like a confused owl. "Tasha?"

The head-tilt is too much for her, with the towel starting to fall even lower now that he's distracted, and his hair drying in ridiculous spikes.  She can't contain herself anymore; she bursts out laughing, which seems to startle Clint, but he smiles.

"It's sexy, right?" he asks. "I kinda like it. Should have got him to do a heart with an arrow around it. How would you ask for that in Russian? You know, for next time."

"You _asshole_ ," Natasha gasps, still laughing. It's been a long time since Clint's heard her laugh, and he can't keep the grin off his face. He does like the tattoo, and he likes that she can handle that kind of gesture without panicking and hurting him, which hasn't always been true. And he likes it best that she's still alive to laugh at him and, he has no doubt, blackmail him for years to come.

He leans over and captures her lips with his, smothering her laughter. Instead of pushing him away she rises towards him, wrapping both arms around his neck. Then she sinks back, pulling him with her, and to keep from overbalancing he throws one hand onto the bed and grabs her shoulder with the other, conveniently leaving no hands to hold the towel around his waist.

* * *

Clint is far more than half asleep with Natasha rolls over and taps him on the new tattoo. The twinge of pain wakes him up a little. "Try to remember where you got that," she says. "We should have someone tail the artist for a few days. Who knows what you told him?"

"I think I told him lots of gibberish and he picked out the one word he understood," Clint mumbles.

He can feel Natasha shrug next to him. "Still worth looking into. Although, really, there's not many ways that mission could have gone worse than it did. Even if he did understand any of what you told him, he didn't kill you or capture you while you were defenseless, so it's unlikely he was a HYDRA agent."

Clint grins into the darkness. "Does that mean I can keep it?"

"What you tattoo on your ass is your business, Barton," she drawls. "Though if it ever interferes in any way with our cover --"

"Yeah, you'll gut me and string my bow with what comes out," he says fondly. "I know."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Dog's Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/579440) by [Darklady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady)




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